


Seeing is Believing

by orphan_account



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Dream Sex, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Psychic Abilities, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 10:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10942659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: (Koiha Ina Mono Mouna Mono AU.) Jackson is cursed with visions of the future, and there's one in particular he's trying to outrun. But unfortunately for Jackson, fate doesn't play nice.





	Seeing is Believing

It begins the same way every night: Jackson is sprawled across his own bed, clad in only his boxers, and there's a body above him, warm and muscle-heavy and straddling his thighs. He looks up to see someone who he's come to recognize - they've met many, many times by now - but still can't place a name to.

 

"Hi," the boy says, lips curved up, sly and teasing; then he leans in and kisses Jackson, bites at Jackson's mouth until it's tender and soft, tangles his fingers in Jackson's hair. "How do you want me tonight?"

 

The situation plays out differently each time. Sometimes they get each other off with only their hands, or mouths, or sometimes the other boy presses Jackson up against the wall and takes him standing up. Or sometimes Jackson bends him over the bathroom sink. Sometimes it's rougher and more perverse, involving objects Jackson's only seen in magazines. All Jackson knows is that he's painfully eager for it, every time -- all of his senses heightened, his heart beating fast and his breathing irregular, his cock hard and straining, and his body opening up for this anonymous boy, hot and slick and wanting.

 

Tonight they're starting with a blowjob. "Lie back," the boy orders him, and Jackson obeys, already half-hard and straining against the elastic waistband of his underwear. Gently the boy slips his hand through the opening of Jackson's boxers and rolls his thumb over the head of Jackson's cock, excruciatingly slow.

 

Neither of them speaks, but Jackson's breath hitches as the boy tugs down his underwear and closes his hand around Jackson's cock, and he can't help but watch, completely enthralled, as the boy licks his bottom lip so that it's wet and gleaming.

 

"Work that pretty mouth of yours for me," Jackson hears himself say, and the boy leans down, mouth opening just enough to take in the head of Jackson's cock. Jackson presses his fingers into the boy's hair as he takes more and more of Jackson in, tongue dragging roughly against the thick vein, reddened lips stretched taut around Jackson, all slippery wet heat, taking Jackson in deeply enough that the head of Jackson's cock nudges the back of the boy's throat, and Jackson feels it, the build-up, he's choking on his own breath, and he's about to come, a nameless cry on the tip of his tongue...

 

... and then he wakes up.

 

 

*

 

 

The dreams began when he was approximately eight years old, when he was still living in Hong Kong: he'd wake up half-breathless in the middle of the night, hands fisting into the sheets, sweat beading at his temple, haunted by bizarre visions of people he'd never met and places he'd never been. A blonde woman being hit by a taxi, a man pressing the mouth of a gun to a child's temple. Not all of them were nightmares, either: there were visions of weddings, lottery winners, soccer tournaments (although, he conceded, all of those could be nightmares from a certain point of view). None of them seemed remotely interconnected, or reflective of anything Jackson had experienced. At the time, he chalked it up to an overactive imagination.

 

One night after dinner, Jackson's father pulled out a horseracing form guide. "Going to try my luck at the races tomorrow with some of the new office hires," he said to Jackson's mother as he marked a page carefully in red pen. "My money's currently on 38. Tip from a subordinate."

 

In the back of Jackson's mind, a certain image clicked into familiarity. Bright sun, a stadium lined with crowds. Horses galloping. A number.

 

"I think," Jackson said slowly, "you should. You should try 92."

 

His dad fixed him with a strange look. "Any particular reason?"

 

"Um… I had a dream last night. That told me ... that 92’s the one." Even as a nine-year-old, his own words sounded stupid to his ears. "I think you should try it."

 

"All right then." His father laughed, indulgent. "The minimum betting amount is only one hundred Hong Kong dollars, anyway, so why not? Anything for my darling son."

 

"Don’t ‘darling’ me," muttered Jackson, underneath his breath.

 

The next day his father came home ten thousand Hong Kong dollars richer and highly intrigued, bubbling over with questions, but Jackson couldn't answer them; he didn't have the faintest understanding of his own power -- where it came from or how to harness it. His subconscious was accurate but completely random; he'd have a dream about a typhoon in Hong Kong two entire months before it happened, or the contents of a package for his mother the day before it arrived. Eventually his family stopped trying to use him as some kind of human crystal ball, and gradually the dreams became less and less frequent, too, until they stopped altogether.

 

For a while, anyway.

 

 

*

 

 

He makes it into the classroom exactly one minute before the bell rings, and is immediately accosted by Youngjae, who having downed approximately five gallons of coffee, is far too perky for seven-thirty in the morning. "Morning, Jackson-hyung," Youngjae says cheerily, throwing an arm over Jackson's shoulders, and the rest of Jackson's ragtag group of friends wave in greeting and shuffle over to his desk.

 

"Morning," Jackson returns blearily, massaging his temple. There are dark circles beneath his eyes and his hands are jittery from all the caffeine he inhaled before leaving home. Coffee doesn’t do as much for him anymore as it once did. Jinyoung shoots him a concerned look.

 

"Did social media keep you up late again?" he asks. “Or was it Youtube?”

 

"You really need to stop staying up so late, Jackson," Jaebum says. "Do you know what lack of sleep does to your skin? There's a zit the size of a crater on your chin. All the organic green tea in the world can’t make up for a good night’s sleep."

 

"Hey,” says Jinyoung, “I can recommend you a good foundation and concealer for your skin, if you like, that's perfect for the color of your complexion- "

 

" - give me a break," Jackson grumbles, halfheartedly slapping Jinyoung's fingers away. "It's just that, ugh." He feels his cheeks flushing. "That. Thing. You know."

 

There's a moment of silence, and then the group ohhhs in unison.

 

"Still?" asks Youngjae. He smirks a little. "Although I don't know why you're so worked up over those, anyway. From your descriptions, you're always having a pretty fantastic time in those dreams - hey, whoa, stop with the dongsaeng abuse!"

 

"I will end you," Jackson growls, eyes narrowed into slits, and Youngjae opens his mouth to retort but then the teacher walks in, her arrival preventing possible bloodshed, and everyone rushes back to their seats. Jackson faceplants onto his desk again. Maybe I'll try a dose of Ambien tonight, he thinks exhaustedly, see if it helps any. This is getting ridiculous.

 

"Morning, class," the teacher says, and after taking roll call she continues, "I have an announcement to make. Today, we have a new transfer student from – the USA? California? Yes, Los Angeles to be specific, and his name is Mark Tuan. Let's give him a warm welcome, everyone!" As the class breaks into lukewarm applause, the teacher nods towards the door. "Come in, now, don't be shy."

 

There's the sound of footsteps against the floor, and a low buzz starts up in the classroom, people whispering excitedly to one another. Jackson catches the words "hot" and "handsome" among the murmurs.

 

From the desk next to Jackson, Youngjae makes an admiring noise. "Wow," he says. "New guy's really quite a looker. I'm jealous."

 

Jackson looks up, then, just slightly curious as to what the fuss is all about.

 

And then his heart stops.

 

Everyone is right. The new guy is attractive. Extremely attractive, with a lean body and beautiful eyes and elfish face and a curved, elegant mouth.

 

A mouth that was wrapped around Jackson's cock not more than three hours ago. Well, kind of. Might as well have been, thinks Jackson frantically, as he tries to force air into his lungs but keeps coming up short. Unless his dreams are wrong -- and they've never been wrong before -- it definitely will be.

 

"Sseun-ie, are you okay?" Jinyoung asks from his left, shocked, and other classmates begin crowding around him as he chokes, hyperventilating; Jackson can vaguely sense the weight of the boy's -- Mark's -- worried gaze, but he finds himself unable to reply, to form words. As Jackson's vision blurs and dims, he's faintly aware of a hand resting against his shoulder, and the shape of it is familiar, in the strangest possible way.

 

 

*

 

 

It was when he shifted into puberty that things became... problematic.

 

At first it wasn't a big deal, or didn't seem like it, anyway. He was thirteen, fourteen; he had desires; said desires usually manifested themselves in the form of secret stashes of porn magazines and boners at the most embarrassing, inopportune times. So the wet dreams shouldn't have meant anything.

 

Except having been previously afflicted with foretelling dreams, ones that foresaw the future with a frightening level of accuracy, kind of rattled one's perspective. Besides, he didn't think most people's wet dreams featured only one recurring character who they'd never even met in their life.

 

He tried everything he could think of to prevent the dreams from recurring. Practicing fencing until the wee hours of the morning. Counting sheep before bed time. Watching enormous amounts of girl-on-girl porn. Drinking alcohol he sneaked out of his parents' wine cabinet. Studying, even.

 

None of these methods discouraged his subconscious from playing the same dreams every night, but on the plus side, at least his grades improved slightly. As did his fencing skills.

 

 

*

 

 

"Hi, Jackson, are you all right?"

 

Jackson opens his eyes, blinking slowly. White sheets. White bedcurtains. School infirmary, he thinks, and sits upright.

 

To his left, Mark breaks into a wide smile that's searingly brilliant, his white teeth glinting. Jackson's heart starts thumping again, a harsh staccato in his chest. "So glad you're awake, Jackson - your name is Jackson, right? You really freaked me out back there, fainting like that. So glad you're okay."

 

Jackson rubs his face with the palm of his hand, willing his pulse to slow down. "The teacher sent the new kid to check up on me, alone?" he says. "That doesn't seem right. Seems downright rude, actually. The oldies are the ones who should be doing the grunt work."

 

"Oh no. I wanted to come here on my own, see how you were doing." Mark smiles again and Jackson automatically leans back, thinking this is bad, this is very, very bad. "Do you faint a lot? The nurse said your blood pressure was normal. She also mentioned that you weren't taking any meds. So I’m gonna assume that - "

 

"Look, I appreciate your concern, Mark," Jackson cuts in, mind still swirling. Mark is too close; the scent of him is overpowering. Known territory. Jackson knows this scent too well. He swings his feet off the infirmary bed and onto the tiled floor. "But I think, for both your sake and mine – for our sanity - that we. That you better stay away from me."

 

Mark looks completely bewildered. Jackson doesn't blame him, but it doesn't matter. He's already heading towards the exit. "Um, what?" Mark says, brows furrowing. "But we've just barely met. I couldn't have -- did I offend you, somehow? Wait, Jackson -- " and he lifts an hand, attempts to grab at Jackson's elbow.

 

It's like a bolt of electricity jolts through Jackson. He turns around and wrenches his arm out of Mark's grasp and hisses, "please don't ever touch me again," glaring into Mark's stricken face, and strides out of the hospital room, not looking back once.

 

But his body hurts in inexplicable places, and he doesn't let himself think about why.

 

 

*

 

 

"I wonder," dream-Mark says thoughtfully, his hands busily divesting Jackson of his boxers, "are you gonna be able to handle this, Jackson? What I'm gonna do to you."

 

Jackson's deeply, achingly hard, and when Mark's hand makes its way around his cock he can't help but keen a little, a high-pitched moan completely unlike his speaking voice. Mark seems to like it though, because his mouth comes down on Jackson's, firm and warm, and his free hand runs over Jackson's bare chest, stomach, thighs. His fingertips trace circles into Jackson's skin. "More, Mark, just get the fuck on with it," and Jackson can barely recognize his own voice -- so shamelessly pleading.

 

Suddenly Mark's hands are no longer on him, and Jackson groans, panting, hard and desperate. "Shh, just one moment," Mark says; he's rummaging through the pockets of the jeans he'd left in a pile on the floor, and moments later he resurfaces with a cock ring clutched tightly in his hand.

 

Which is new. They've done dildos and vibrators before, blindfolds and thick ropes, but the firm metal grip of the cock ring that Mark slides onto him isn't like anything Jackson's ever experienced, and he bucks upward into the tightness of the ring, hips arching off the bedsheets, yearning. "Hey, wait," he breathes, struggling for air, and Mark just laughs in answer. "Not yet," Mark says, clambering over Jackson's body and surveying the sight spread out below him, and he smiles mischievously. "Not yet, Jackson."

 

The strain, the pent-up sexual charge, it's almost painful, all the blood in Jackson's body surging towards his dick, and then Mark wraps lube-slicked fingers around Jackson's cock and it's almost explosive. Jackson can't stop trembling, asking for more - and faster - with every hitched breath, as Mark moves his hand on Jackson's cock in long, measured strokes. "Oh god, oh fucking hell," Jackson squeezes out, writhing helplessly, the building pressure becoming nearly unbearable, "I'm going to come."

 

"No you aren't, not yet," Mark says smoothly, and immediately his grip on Jackson's cock is gone. Instead his hand trails downward, lingering over Jackson's balls, and finally brushes over the rim of Jackson's opening, stroking it gently with slow, deliberate movements.

 

"Holy shit," Jackson hisses, hands clawing wantonly into the sheets, spine curving. Mark finally slips one finger inside Jackson, then two, then four, and Jackson lets out a stifled noise that's more sob than not. "God, Mark, I can't, I really gotta," he begins, but Mark murmurs, "you can't come unless I tell you to," and fuck if that isn't Jackson even more desperate for release, that sensuous note in Mark's voice reverberating through every bone in his body.

 

Mark thrusts into Jackson with his fingers, burying them down to the knuckle, and pushes Jackson down into the mattress with his other hand when Jackson attempts to buck up against him. "Hands off, Jackson, you can't come yet," he whispers, voice low like silk.

 

And the pain is exquisite, the pressure of having needed to come since a quarter of an hour ago building up within him, but Jackson grits his teeth, blinks back tears as Mark continues pushing into him, establishing an incredible rhythm, brushing against Jackson's prostate with skillful fingers.

 

Jackson's not sure how long this goes on for: Mark stroking into him steadily, never slowing his pace, fucking Jackson on and on but with his fingers only, and it drives Jackson into incoherency, being fucked loose and wet like this, but it's still not enough.

 

"Will you quit fucking around with me," pants Jackson, squeezing his eyes tightly shut with the intensity of everything, "and just fuck me, goddammit."

 

Mark laughs, soft. "Oh man, you're so needy," he says. "Flip over."

 

Jackson obeys, groaning as his cock, still bound by the metal ring, accidentally brushes against the bedsheets. Behind him there's the rustling sound of a condom being unwrapped, a quick moment of inaction as Mark positions his cock over Jackson's hole, and then finally, finally, Mark enters Jackson, pushing in slowly.

 

"Oh, you're tight," Mark groans, once he's seated all the way inside, and Jackson has never wanted to touch himself more than now. He doesn't, though, obediently keeps his fingers curled tightly into the sheets, gasping as Mark pulls out nearly all the way, and then thrusts back in again, and again and again, pounding in so deeply that Jackson's skull hits the headboard.

 

The pain crosses the threshold from good to unbearable, and Jackson closes his eyes only to see stars bursting against the backs of his eyelids. "Mark, fuck, I gotta, I gotta come," he moans.

 

"Say please," Mark breathes, still pounding into him, and Jackson says "okay, fuck, Mark, please," and so Mark murmurs "okay, fine, you can come," hand gliding over Jackson's stomach, loosening the ring at the base of his cock, and it only takes two or three more thrusts before Jackson's coming all over the sheets, breath finally returning to his lungs, and dimly he registers as the dream fades that Mark's coming inside him, too, muffled invective pouring out of his mouth.

 

In this dream, his orgasm hits him so hard that he passes out, unconscious. In reality, he wakes up.

 

 

*

 

 

He decides to avoid Mark. Which should be easy in theory – when he wants to, Jackson is really good at dodging people, invasive questions and unpleasant situations, and Mark isn't going out of his way to run into Jackson either - but fate is a cruel, cruel mistress, so Mark keeps crossing paths with him despite Jackson's efforts.

 

Really, though, it's because Mark's a genuinely cool, nice guy, if rather quiet, and all of Jackson's friends have taken an immediate liking to him.

 

"His skin is so perfect," gushes Jinyoung, patting his own cheeks with starry eyes. "I'm trying out the skin products he's recommended! He even gave me a couple of sheet masks that he said cured his acne problems."

 

"He has excellent taste in manga," says Jaebum, nodding seriously. "I went to his house the other day and his collection had my mouth drooling, it's like an entire library."

 

"He’s the best gaming buddy I’ve found," says Youngjae, “even though he humiliates me every time.”

 

Jackson can’t drown Mark out, despite his best efforts. Lunchtimes are painful affairs. Jackson spends most of the lunch hour staring into his meal or playing with his phone, eyes focused on anything but Mark, and Mark always chats pleasantly with the rest of Jackson's friends (or more often than not, listens to their conversations) as though nothing had occurred between them, as though Jackson weren't even there.

 

But on occasion Jackson feels a prickle on his skin, the creeping sense that someone is staring at him, and it makes his ears flush but he never looks up. Self-control, he reminds himself. This is only fate puppeteering movements, after all, and not true desire. Sometimes, though, Jackson is hard-pressed to tell the difference.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a high school AU, but let's say Jackson and Mark are both seniors and 18 years old for the sake of this fic.


End file.
